


Happy life after the Apocalypse

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What happens after the kind-of-not-really Apocalypse?





	1. Newt/Anathema and Madame Tracy/Shadwell

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> I've been incredibly busy lately, and haven't really had any time to write any fanfiction at all. Damn music exams, haha.  
> So here's a (not really finished) bit of fanfic, about what Newt/Anathema and Madame Tracy/Shadwell did after the Apocalypse. The Them and Crowley/Aziraphale should (hopefully) be posted tomorrow.  
> Sorry it's so short, I promise I will be writing more frequently now ^-^

_It was a nice life, after the Apocalypse._

The witchfinder private had spoken first, at least, presumably so. He’d stared at the witch, glasses speckled with faint grey smudges, looking completely and utterly bewildered. His hair was standing up in all wild directions, streaked with a tarnish of ash. Blinking owlishly, he’d turned to Anathema.

“What the fuck do we do now?” he’d said. And the witch had laughed.

They drove back in the Wasabi, and Newt sung along to the Best of Queen tape he didn’t know he owned. Anathema laughed like there was no tomorrow, pretending to hush the witchfinder and threatening him with the breadknife she had forgotten to bring.

And they both felt strangely, oddly, inexplicably _happy._

They’d gone back to Anathema’s place, and stood in awkward silence for a few minutes, before she decided to screw the rules, and kissed Newt as hard as she could.

In the morning, they drank their bitter black coffee and burned the second book in the fireplace. Newt nearly burnt his hand on the citrus-coloured flames, and Anathema rolled her eyes at him.

The house smelt of smoke for weeks afterwards.

Perhaps it was Agnes haunting her last descendant, with the scent of her last words on paper.

That damn Agnes Nutter. Always had to have the last say.

Sometimes Anathema wondered if Agnes had predicted all this. Predicted all the late night rambles, the wandering walks at sunset, the lustful nights, or the waking moments when the sun filtered through the window. Predicted those memories captured, all those silly photos taken of them with her light blue camera he’d given her for Christmas. Predicted all the time spent with _him,_ the not-really-hero who she’d never realised she needed.

Maybe she had. And maybe she hadn’t.

And one day, years too late, she’d answered Newt’s question.

“We’re going to live, Newt,” she said. “That’s what we’re going to do.”

_It was a nice life, after the Apocalypse._

 

_It was a comfortable life, after the Apocalypse._

Sergeant Shadwell had done three things after the Apocalypse: Counted his nipples one last time, added ‘retired’ to his title, and kissed Madame Tracy.

She hadn’t complained. Maybe about the nipple-counting. But not anything else.

They’d taken down the signs for the Witchfinder Army that had been taped to the window, and used them as kindling for the fireplace. The cheaply printed words faded and turned to black, as Shadwell shook his head at the signs.

“Whole lot o’ lark,” he’d said.

Madame Tracy kept bringing him his meals swamped with condensed milk, and one day, she joined him. And he hadn’t said a word.

And one Tuesday, she’d decided that they should go out for a proper lunch. It became a sort of tradition, after that.

Surprisingly, Shadwell found that food was actually a lot nicer without so much condensed milk.

Madame Tracy, after a while, started to get bored. She started drawing the veil less and less, only Mondays and Fridays, then only Thursdays, then eventually, not at all. After the Apocalypse, she realised that there was no point doing things that you didn’t want to.

She had suggested they move in together, once, nonchalantly. It’d save money, she’d said. And so they had.

And somehow, kind of ended up falling in love.

Shadwell attempted to be romantic, sometimes. It was rather endearing, to Madame Tracy. He’d make her cups of tea with condensed milk and present her squished flowers, hoping she would get the hint.

She always did. In fact, she usually already knew.

Agnes Nutter finally left them alone. She supposed that she’d better, after all that had happened.

_It was a comfortable life, after the Apocalypse._


	2. The Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do the Them do after the Apocalypse that wasn't?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> Okay, I know I promised that I would post the Them and Crowley/Aziraphale's chapter today, but Humans was on and I have no self control. Sorry! I want to spend a bit more time on Crowley/Azi's chapter, I want it to be good :)  
> So here's the Them's chapter, the other chapter should be uploaded tomorrow but I make no promises.

_It was an innocent life, after the Apocalypse._

Adam was grounded for a month.

When he was finally allowed out, his parents ushered him into a chair and had a ‘serious talk’ to him, about responsibility and maturity. We’re not sure about these friends, they’d said. Are they a good influence, they’d asked.

Adam was out of the door before they could blink. One moment he was there, sitting on the old sofa, staring at them dubiously. The next, he was halfway down the street on his bike. And suddenly, they had no idea what they were talking about.

Brian had grown a foot, and Wensley had bought new glasses. They were even bigger than his last ones, thick-rimmed and heavy.

They teased him about them for weeks.

When Adam rode up to the Them, after being absent for weeks, Pepper was first to greet him.

“Good to have you back,” she said, a spark in her eyes. After around a second of silence, she suddenly started ranting about every single idea she’d had while he was gone.

And so it continued.

Perhaps they weren’t as innocent as they once were. Maybe, after the Apocalypse, they weren’t just quite as carefree, just a little less childish.

But they didn’t let that stop them. Eventually, they came to terms that growing up was stupid, and that they should just screw the rules.

One little Apocalypse wasn’t going to stop them.

So they laughed until it hurt and told stupid stories and splashed in puddles. They biked along the paths with big ‘keep out’ signs on them, and lit strings of firecrackers in the early morning, and ran off with Dog, into the fading sunset.

And after a while, Adam started to look at Pepper differently. As they grew taller and older, he realised that she was, kind of, perfect. And that he wouldn’t really mind spending more time with her. Or a lifetime, really.

He never told her. She already knew.

Brian and Wensley never stopped teasing them about it.

“They’ll be married soon,” they joked, knowing they weren’t the only ones.

And maybe they did, in the end. Maybe they lived in a pretty little cottage with two kids and a dog that looked oddly like the Dog that Adam owned when he was eleven.

Maybe they didn’t. Who knows.

_It was an innocent life, after the Apocalypse._


	3. Crowley and Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do the angel and the demon do after the Apocawasn't?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people ^-^  
> Here's the chapter, it could have been better but it'll do. I might possibly write one for the Horsepersons of the Apocalypse, idk. Let me know what you think :)

_It was a happy life, after the Apocalypse._

Crowley, oddly missed the Queen when he drove home. He had become strangely accustomed to it.

Aziraphale just willed himself to be back home. He had books to read.

On the night of the Apocalypse, they went out to the Ritz, and drank so much they couldn’t stand. After the Apocalypse, at the end of the world, decided that they needed to do a bit more living.

And live is what they did. Being six-millennia old beings, they did an awful lot of living. And yet, with each other, there was never a dull day.

They drank and they laughed and they talked, and then talked some more. Never before had the city lights looked so enticing, the food tasted so good, the liquor so strong. There was a certain rush of living after the Apocalypse, especially on the night straight after, when they were both clouded with lust and love and alcohol and _life._

The morning after, Crowley woke with a hangover and the remains of euphoria from the night before. He remembered the flickering streetlights, and the bottles covering the table, and the angel, the taste of him still lingering on his lips.

They walked along the path by the lake, the ducks flocking around them expectantly, as the grass moved beneath their feet. Crowley examined the birds for anything odd, searching for a glimmer of Hell in a beady eye, anything at all strange. But there was nothing. They were just pesky little ducks, spending their lives scavenging bread and swimming in the lake.

Occasionally, they would ask each other about whether or not they’d been contacted by their respective sides. Each time, the answer was always no, and eventually, they stopped asking.

“They’re trying to forget it ever happened,” Crowley noted, one day. But you couldn’t really forget something like that. Not now, not ever. It was foolish, to try and forget the Apocalypse.

They’d check up on the others, sometimes. The Them would catch a glimpse of yellow from behind a bush, or Anathema would get a new book arrive on her doorstep. It became somewhat a collaborative project, something to talk about and work together on.

For strictly work purposes, of course. Nothing sentimental.

It all continued. They did what they’d been doing for six millennia beforehand – they lived.

Except this time, the shadow of the Apocalypse behind them, they did a Hell of a lot more living than they had done.

And yet, it was really just the same.

_It was a happy life, after the Apocalypse._


	4. The Horsepersons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to the four horsepersons of the Apocalypse, once the Apocalypse is over?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this ended up being way more angsty and deep than I intended it to be. Also, I wrote this instead of doing work. Be grateful.

_It was an empty life, after the Apocalypse._

War was lost.

She roamed across battlefields, in trenches and down dark alleyways. She was free from her body, spreading around the world, creeping into minds as a tempting thought, a red rage. Anger spread like a fire, as she vaguely missed the flaming sword, still remembering the smell of charcoal, the warmth against her hands.

 _God,_ it had felt good. To be so alive, scarlet hair blowing in the wind, red lips chapped from the cold, holding the sword that was too hot and her anger that was even hotter.

Now, she was nothing but a breath of warm air, a shadow of darkness on the horizon. She was nothing but a bad temper, a shadow resigned to petty arguments. The war zones just weren’t quite the same, without the strange woman with the red hair roaming across the trenches, heels sinking into the mud. Nobody knew who she was, and yet, they knew she should have been there.

She wasn’t. She was somewhere else, waiting, watching, and waiting some more.

After a while, she managed to find a body, sick of floating as a red mist. The new one was merely a shadow, a meek, mousy-haired figure, with watery blue eyes like bullet holes. The sort of girl men wouldn’t give a second glance, ignoring her with the swipe of a hand. War found that it was rather convenient, having them resign you from their thoughts with a disapproving look. It made things so much easier for her.

She walked the battlefields in flat-heeled shoes, and then, with a wink made for a face far more attractive, disappeared.

She wasn’t lost. No, she was _looking._

 

***

He wandered across grimy streets, where the flies buzzed and last week’s trash was smeared across the road. Picking through trash cans and sleeping among infestations of maggots that crawled into his form that was no longer viable as skin. He emitted the scent of drain water and burnt plastic, making the residents shut their windows and spray too much air freshener, attempting to drown the horrid stench that didn’t ever go away.

“I’ll pick it up later,” he whispered into ears. “It’s blown away, I can’t get it now.”

Every time, it always worked. He couldn’t believe how lazy they all were, how ignorant.

It made his job all the more easier. So much, that actually, he craved some challenge. Not just petty trash, stink and flies. He wanted something real, something big.

But that could never happen, not unless he found the others. And God knows where they were. Probably off doing things more important, more big, while he was stuck with rustling plastic and insects. He was only Pollution, after all, and nobody ever realised quite how powerful he was until it was too late.

He though back to the Apocalypse, that glorious time. He remembered the feeling of the crown on his head, the shine fading in his touch. Ah, it was so beautiful. Too bad it was gone, just like everything he touched.

“I had a body once, you know,” he said to a fly on what could vaguely represent a shoulder. “I rode a motorcycle. And I had a crown. It was real silver.”

He stopped talking, and realised what he had to do. And he stood up, shape morphing into the one he had once owned, so long ago. A wry smile appeared on his face, and his yellow hair whitened, tarnished like the crown had.

He was Pollution, after all. And he wasn’t going to let it be too late.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

There was a new diet pill on the market. And it was huge. Nobody really knew who was selling it, but perhaps it were something that sounded a little like ‘Stable’, maybe. Or maybe not.

 But hey, it worked. And in the world of faceless consumerism, the people didn’t care who made it. As long as it worked, side effects were irrelevant.

Famine sat behind a desk, long fingers pressed together. Twirling a chalky pill in his hand, he looked out at everything he had created, the company that no one ever remembered.

He bit the white tablet as hard as he could, and it crumbled in his teeth, nothing but ash. It tasted like nothing, because that’s what it was. And yet, millions were taking the tiny little taste of perish that he’d made, shrinking and shrinking until nothing was left.

“Silly, stupid humans,” he purred, staring out at all the people shrinking in clothing size and brain function. “Don’t ever even realise what they’re doing, until it’s too late.”

And frankly, it was getting boring. What was the point of sitting around as all the people around turned into skeletons? What was the point of watching them boast to their friends, showing off ribcages and collarbones, crumbling like the pill in his hands? He wanted something more. He needed to find the others.

It was damn boring, after the Apocalypse, and he wanted it back.

He took the pill off the market, and bought four new motorcycles.

 

***

 

Death watched as they all prepared, each one thinking of the Apocalypse and missing what had been. When he saw them all yearning, praying, wishing, he granted their wishes, like the messed-up god he was.

And then he put on his best cloak, and prepared himself for the ride.

 

***

 

They all found themselves where it had all begun, the airport base which was ingrained into all of their memories. War was the first, thin hair waving distantly in the breeze, as she filled with nostalgia.

Then it was Famine, and then Pollution, and finally, with the sweep of a dark cloak, Death.

“Alright!” War grinned, bubbling with a strange excitement, a happiness she hadn’t felt for too long.

“Nearly didn’t recognise you, Red,” Famine said, even though he had. There was something about the way her eyes spoke of danger, that he couldn’t miss.

“Same to you,” War replied, eyeing him. For though he looked the same, there was something in his gait, his manner, that had changed.

Pollution beamed at the group, sinking form straightening into the young man with the white hair, and he felt so _alive._

“Good to see you,” he said, to no one in particular. And Death straightened his robe, then waited for someone to say something.

Oddly, they all realised that, well, they didn't need an Apocalypse to still be themselves.

And the motorbikes that had suddenly appeared roared, agreeing as they rode off, to God knows where, to be seen again, sometime.

_It was a full life, after the Apocalypse._

 

               


End file.
